


The Third Time It’s Enemy Action

by sapphose



Series: Terok Nor AU [3]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Exile Julian, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Alternate Universe - Terok Nor, Angst, Dabo boy Julian AU, Dukat is the Worst, Exile Julian AU, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Occupation of Bajor, Pre-Canon, Richard and Amsha Bashir's A+ parenting, Terok Nor (Star Trek), Terok Nor AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:27:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27482695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphose/pseuds/sapphose
Summary: Julian is growing accustomed to life on Terok Nor, but is thrown into new danger when he catches the attention of Dukat.
Relationships: Julian Bashir & Dukat, Julian Bashir & Elim Garak, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Series: Terok Nor AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1995967
Comments: 180
Kudos: 144





	1. Shaken, Not Stirred

**Author's Note:**

> Remember when I said I was only going to write the one piece? That was a good joke on myself. My brain will not let go of this AU so this is I guess where we are living for the foreseeable future.
> 
> The chapter titles all come from famous Bond quotes. The work title comes from Bond novel quote: "Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action." Seemed appropriate for the third work in a Julian-centric series.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's now an illustration! Do you want to see dabo boy Julian flipping off Dukat? I know I do! https://blutbads.tumblr.com/post/644595840597590016/i-havent-drawn-anything-in-a-long-ass-time-but

“I don’t care if it’s Legate Kell is coming to the station, I’m still not a bodyguard!”

Julian angled his head towards the entrance unconsciously, catching the mention of the legate’s name even over the din of the dabo table. A quick glance up revealed two Cardassian officers entering the premises. Julian recognized the speaker as Russol, a regular patron of Quark’s. The other was unfamiliar.

“You’re a member of the military,” Russol’s companion reminded him as they wove their way to an empty table. “You go where you’re told. Besides, think of it as an opportunity for advancement.”

“If anything, escort duty is a demotion.”

Julian went through the motions of encouraging bets, but his main focus was straining his ears to pick up their conversation. Dukat’s boss had avoided the station for years, according to Quark, and now Kell was on his third visit in the span of six months. Something was afoot. If Julian could just figure out what, if he could learn something new to tell Kira…

“Not if you make a good impression,” the unfamiliar Cardassian argued.

“If Kell is impressed by anything, it’s Dukat who’ll get promoted. That’s what always happens, Toran.”

So the other one was Toran. But Julian was not interested in hearing more about whether or not Dukat gave inferiors sufficient opportunity for advancement; he needed the conversation to circle back to the legate’s suddenly renewed interest in Terok Nor.

“Yes, but then who will Dukat promote? You need more ambition, Russol.”

“Easy for you to-”

The rest of the sentence was overpowered by the noise of gamblers reacting to the latest spin. The bar was unusually crowded, packed with the off-duty members of a freighter crew that had docked to pick up an ore shipment.

Julian’s present job was to circulate, flirt, and encourage everyone to spend more, which provided the perfect excuse to take matters into his own hands.

He made a show of noticing the two newcomers with a wide grin and wave.

“Russol, come and join us for a round!” He raised his voice to be heard, energetically indicating the wheel.

Toran scoffed, but Russol laughed.

“I still owe Quark from the last time,” he called back, although that was a lie and they both knew it. Cardassians were scrupulous about repaying acknowledged debts.

“That’s too bad.” Julian detached himself from dabo and made his way to their table, pausing before he spoke again. The decreased distance allowing him to lower his voice. “I was hoping you would buy me a drink.”

He positioned himself directly next to the chair of Russol, whose hand found its way to his lower back.

“Perhaps I could be persuaded.”

“I’ll make it cheap for you, how about that? I’ll drink anything but kanar.”

The hand moved lower, to his rear.

“You still haven’t found a vintage you like? Toran, can you believe a beautiful young man like this doesn’t appreciate kanar?”

“I can’t believe you waste your time on dabo spinners,” Toran grumbled. Julian was not sure if he was jealous or just considered himself too good for Quark’s, but decided to ignore him either way.

“If you have one in mind, I’m open to suggestions.” Julian reached over and lightly stroked Russol’s right shoulder ridge, exposed by the wide neck of his uniform. That would speak much more loudly than any complaint Toran could offer.

“Then I think we’ll order a bottle of 2327 vintage,” Russol said, “and some company to go with it.”

Julian smiled through the sharp pinch on his ass.

“I’ll be right back,” he promised.

He would find an excuse not to drink along with them, but liquor always loosened lips, and he wanted as much information about Kell’s visit as could be provided.

He wouldn’t have admitted it out loud, but Julian thought of his work in Quark’s as being undercover. He may have been more Bond girl than James himself, but dabo duty had a higher purpose, providing money and information that could be put to use aiding the Bajorans on the station. He chose a persona based on what he felt would best lure in the target- naive and bubbly or femme fatale- and on occasion even enjoyed himself in the process.

Julian contemplated the best angle of attack on Russol as he leaned across the bar, waiting for Quark to find the right bottle of kanar (or to slap the right label on whatever bottle was first available).

“Can they really taste the difference of the year?” Julian wanted to know. All kanar tasted the same to him, thick and syrupy sweet.

“You’d be surprised. I once knew a Cardassian who could taste it down to the month.” Quark looked a little mournful about the fact, presumably because it made it harder for him to upsell the cheap stuff.

A voice behind Julian said, “Well, Quark, aren’t you going to welcome me?”

Julian stiffened immediately, but Quark merely smiled obsequiously.

The world inside Quark’s was always fun and games. That was the business model- escapism for a reasonable price. At times, in the hustle and bustle and excitement, Julian could feel the grim world on the other side of the Promenade slipping away, caught up in his own spy fantasy.

Until something- or someone- came along to remind him why spying was necessary.

“You’re always welcome here, Dukat!” Quark’s grin put all 45 pointy teeth on display. “What can I get for you?”

Not that Dukat needed to come to the bar to drink, since his quarters were equipped with private replicators, real food and alcohol straight from Cardassia Prime, and Bajoran women specifically kidnapped for his pleasure.

“I’d like a word with your human.”

In a perfect, James Bond-esque world, Julian would have been able to respond to that with cool composure. Instead, he accidentally bit down on his tongue and almost yelped aloud at the sudden sting.

Conversation with Dukat presented two difficulties.

Firstly, if Dukat grew curious about the presence of a human on the station, or suspected that Julian was aiding the Bajorans, he could have the human arrested with a snap of his fingers. Being arrested would be the best outcome, in fact, because Odo was as close to fair and reasonable as anyone could get on Terok Nor. Torture, interrogation, and execution were the far less optimistic possibilities.

Secondly, Julian hated him.

It was hard not to loathe Dukat. Even if the other Cardassian soldiers could be excused as only following orders (a flimsy and insufficient defense), Dukat was one of the architects of Bajoran suffering, and he took pride in a job well done.

“Julian’s right here,” Quark said, as if Dukat had somehow managed to miss that fact. “You can say as many words as you’d like.”

“Without an audience, if you please.”

“Oh! Oh, of course. I’ll just go check on Rom.” Quark gave Julian a look that might almost be called pitying, and made his way out from behind the bar.

There were others around, of course, so it wasn’t exactly private. But it still had the effect of making Julian uncomfortable.

“You’ve been very busy since you arrived on my station, Julian,” Dukat began.

Julian didn’t miss that. _My_ _station_. Terok Nor was Dukat’s private planet, and everyone else just happened to be living on it.

“Quark does keep me busy,” Julian agreed lightly, “but I’m enjoying it. I’ve made so many new friends through working here.”

“Including our resident tailor, I’m told. An amiable fellow if there ever was one, that Garak.” Dukat hit the _k_ in Garak’s name as if it choked him.

If this was just some strange peacocking born of Dukat and Garak’s mutual hatred, that would be fine. Inconvenient, certainly, but unlikely to result in death.

“Yes, Garak’s very kind. He’s been introducing me to Cardassian literature.” It wasn’t the literature that Julian enjoyed, but the arguments. Debating with Garak was the most intellectual stimulation he’d had in years, and he did not have to worry about holding back his intelligence or coming on too strong. Of course they could never discuss personal topics, and they never answered each other’s questions, but it was the closest Julian felt to being himself since he had fled Federation space.

“I would be careful, if I were you,” Dukat advised. “His taste isn’t always… trustworthy.”

That was an unnecessary warning. Anyone who paid attention could tell that Garak was not what he claimed to be, a tailor who never opened his shop and took no customers yet never seemed to want for money. It was not a set of circumstances that inspired trust. Still, Julian did not quite mind. He was lying to Garak, after all. What did it matter if Garak did the same in turn? They both pretended that they were mundane, and that the other person couldn’t tell it was a facade.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Julian replied simply, and hoped that would be the end of the conversation.

No such luck.

“Are you discussing literature with the Bajorans as well?” Dukat prodded.

That called for obfuscation of Julian’s least favorite kind.

“I didn’t realize any of them could read!” he laughed. A queasy, guilty feeling permeated his stomach, as it always did when he was forced to say things like that.

When spies went undercover in the kinds of novels Julian liked to read, it was only for a finite period of time, with justice always served by the final page. Julian himself, on the other hand, did not have the luxury of a fair end in sight.

He could always leave. Quit Quark’s and go back to the life of fleeing he had been living before. But now that he had seen the pain and struggle firsthand, he couldn’t turn his back on Bajor, even if his efforts would never be enough. He stayed because he would not have been able to live with himself if he didn’t do something.

But it rankled, standing there and having to play nice with the man who was not only responsible for the devastation of a planet, but also seemed to see it as some kind of perverse paternalistic duty.

Perhaps, in that moment, Dukat saw something in Julian’s eyes, a glimpse of the rage and resolve within.

Perhaps the only thing Dukat saw in others’ eyes was his own reflection.

Either way, he turned over his shoulder and called out to the bar, “Quark! I’m taking your human for the evening.”

Both Quark and Julian’s protestations were ignored. Dukat swept out of the bar and expected Julian to follow.

Half a step behind, the human did so, fervently searching the Promenade for possible distractions. Wherever Dukat was taking him, he was sure it was not a place he wanted to be.

“I think you’ve lied to me,” Dukat said conversationally as they walked. He seemed to have no qualms about discreetness, since anybody walking by could overhear them.

“About anything in particular?” Julian tried to keep his tone playful, as if waiting for the punchline.

If the universe had any kindness, this would just be about how much Dukat and Garak hated each other. But Julian’s luck was in short supply.

“I know you’ve been playing doctor to the Bajorans. I’ve been very generous to it go on this far, don’t you agree?”

Far from generous, it was the literal bare minimum that Dukat could do, but there was no point in saying so.

Technically, distributing bandages and birth control was not against the law, but only Odo was likely to care about such a distinction. Using falsified security codes to override limits on Quark’s replicators was very much against the rules, but more likely to result in a beating than being thrown off the station.

The real death knell would be if they realized Kira was Julian’s contact in the resistance. If they did, they would interrogate him.

If they interrogated him, they might realize that Julian’s body did not respond to torture the way a human’s was supposed to. Julian had not decided if it would be worse to be discovered or killed. He didn’t relish either option.

“I’ve always thought you were a generous man,” he lied. There did not seem to be much else to do, particularly not while striding down a Promenade lined with armed guards.

“Now it’s time for you to repay my kindness. You and I, Julian, are going on a little trip.”

A firm hand grasped the junction of his neck and shoulder, a cruel parody of his earlier attentions to Russol. Julian knew the vise-like grip steering him down the corridor meant danger.

He was strong enough to break free, but all it would get him was a disrupter to the face from someone on patrol. If it looked like he was harming the Prefect, they probably wouldn’t hesitate to shoot him.

They passed the security office without a sideways glance, crushing Julian’s faint hope that he might be saved by Odo’s sense of justice.

The next turn took them to the habitat ring.

“If you wanted me to come back to your quarters, all you had to do was ask,” Julian tried. It was a last-ditch effort; Dukat’s predilections ran in a decidedly female direction.

“I’m afraid we have other plans.” Dukat glanced back at him with a look Julian did not like at all. “Besides, I think your friend Garak would rather keep you to himself.”

“We aren’t together,” Julian said quickly, just in case all this was a manifestation of a grudge against Garak and clarifying that misunderstanding might save him.

(Whether or not he _wanted_ to sleep with Garak was a different issue, and one he would not discuss with Dukat under any circumstances.)

“Indeed,” Dukat said.

They crossed the threshold of the passageway that led to the outer docking ring.

Throwing someone out of the airlock was not usual Cardassian style. They murdered in surreptitious secret, the victim dead before they had the chance to realize what was happening, or else broadcasted the execution as a public lesson. There was no in-between.

Well, that wasn’t not entirely true. The step in between was interrogation.

They wouldn’t get any useful information out of Julian. He didn’t have any to give. His only contact was Kira, and she could easily be going by a false name. There were definitely other members of the resistance on the station, but Julian hadn’t the faintest idea who any of them were.

He wouldn’t betray the Bajorans, but that was cold comfort.

If the Cardassians realized he was genetically enhanced, would they kill him, or turn him in to the Federation, or condemn him to life as a lab rat or tool?

Maybe death was better. Maybe he should make a run for it, and then if he was vaporized by phaser fire at least it would be his own choice.

They stopped at a docking port with only one guard.

“Ready to depart, sir?” the soldier asked.

Julian had not yet made up his mind on a course of action, but it was now absolutely necessary to do _something_. He chose to wrench himself free of Dukat’s grasp.

The guard aimed, but did not fire.

“Where are you taking me?” Julian demanded, dropping any remaining pretense.

Dukat’s smile sent chills down Julian’s spine.

“It’s more exciting if it’s a surprise, don’t you think?”

If Julian were, hypothetically, to disarm and knock out both Dukat and the guard, he then have to either hide out in the ducts like a vole until he could stow away on the next freighter out, or steal a shuttle.

If he was going to steal the shuttle anyways, it made sense to let Dukat get it out of dock first. Then Julian would have time to learn the controls, and once they were out in space he could neutralize Dukat and transport him somewhere.

There was nothing for it but to screw his courage to the sticking place.

 _Lay on, Dukat_ , he thought, _and damned be him who first cries ‘Hold, enough!’_

He hoped Macbeth on the mind was not a bad omen.


	2. No, Mr. Bond, I Expect You to Die

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian is exactly where he does not want to be- trapped in a shuttle with Dukat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be only part of the chapter but it got so long I decided to let it stand on its own.

“You can sit down, you know,” Dukat said, without looking up from the controls. “You aren’t a prisoner.”

That was obviously not true, and Julian ignored it, continuing to stand pointedly in place. His general strategy at the moment was to ignore anything coming out of Dukat’s mouth, and instead focus on trying to figure out the operations of the craft. He had learned some Cardassian language and culture in his time on Terok Nor, but nothing that would aid him in piloting an alien shuttle. Hopefully the basic principles were the same as what he had learned at the academy.

All he really knew about the shuttle itself was that the shape reminded him vaguely of a manta ray. That was hardly going to be useful.

“I could be a valuable friend to you,” Dukat continued.

If Julian knocked him out, transported him somewhere else, and escaped with the shuttle, would the Cardassians be satisfied with the recovery of Dukat or go after his attacker? Julian would have to sell the shuttle and then purchase another vessel, one harder to trace.

He didn’t want to have to run again. He had found purpose in helping the Bajorans, and unexpected companionship with Garak. But he couldn’t allow himself to be captured.

Dukat was still talking. He didn’t seem to stop.

“There are some who would say that anyone from the Federation is an enemy of Cardassia.”

“It’s a good thing I’m not from the Federation,” Julian replied automatically, unwilling to allow Dukat to pursue that train of thought any further. “Turkana IV is an independent planet.”

Julian had long since decided that his character’s origin would be the failed colony of Turkana IV. Those who lived on it despised the Federation, which worked perfectly for Julian’s purposes.

“Not that such distinctions matter, if things proceed as planned,” Dukat said, which was a puzzling response. Did he mean that the distinction between Federation and non-Federation humans would be obsolete, or that independence of any planet didn’t matter in the grand scheme of Cardassia’s plans?

“So much for the armistice,” Julian muttered, and leaned forward over the head of the co-pilot seat to get a better look at the control panel.

If Dukat noticed the obvious direction of Julian’s attention, he chose not to comment on it, instead remarking simply, “A cease-fire is not an alliance.”

Technically true, but worrying in context. Was Central Command planning to move against the Federation? Was that what Legate Kell was doing on the station?

Not that it mattered. If Julian wasn’t returning to Terok Nor, nothing he learned would benefit Kira or the Resistance. The Federation had made clear that Julian was no longer a citizen, so what did it matter to him if they were attacked?

It did, of course. Julian thought guiltily of Setlik III. Would the civilians have evacuated sooner, if someone had tipped them off to the assault?

“What are you planning?” he asked.

There was no finesse to the question, no suaveness or skill. It slipped out gracelessly.

Dukat turned his head to the side slightly, giving Julian an assessing glance.

“Sit down.”

There was no reason for Julian not to, aside from sheer defiance. He was not in the mood to acquiesce, but his initial understanding of Dukat suggested that the prefect would be more likely to brag and reveal information if he felt himself to be in control.

Keeping a neutral expression, Julian sat.

Dukat smiled, a sight Julian did not like at all.

“ _I_ am not planning anything. Central Command is taking necessary actions to protect the union from potential dangers.”

Julian wasn’t certain exactly what that meant, but felt definitively that it was not good.

Was that why Dukat had whisked him away? If they thought Julian was a Federation spy, or a source of information about outposts or defenses, or if they somehow knew about the enhancements and thought that he could be turned into a weapon…

Julian’s breathing began to grow shallower. _Steady on_ , he told himself firmly. Panic would help nothing.

What he needed, more than anything, was information.

“Where are we going?” he asked, and did not let his voice wobble. James Bond did not panic.

Dukat had not answered that question before, but he seemed more relaxed now than he had been on the station, with arms as loose as armor allowed and his grip on steering light.

Evidently, he did not consider Julian a threat.

“Bajor,” Dukat said, which did very little to allay Julian’s worry. “I think you’ll be able to put many of your skills to work there. Tell me, how much do you know about Bajoran anatomy?”

Did they want Julian as a torturer? That wouldn’t make sense, given the number of Cardassians willing and able to do the job. Perhaps they needed him for a human prisoner- but then, Dukat wouldn’t be asking about Bajoran experience.

Julian didn’t believe for a second that they’d actually want him to heal Bajorans. That was not the Cardassians’ ruling philosophy.

He went for the safest answer.

“I’m a dabo spinner. All the _anatomy_ I know is of a particular kind.” As punctuation, he flicked his glance down to Dukat’s lap, then back up.

With smoky eyeliner for bedroom eyes and a sultry lick or bite to draw attention to his lips, Julian had experienced consistent success distracting Cardassian soldiers with such directed gazes.

Dukat, however, only smiled thinly.

“I have allowed you to remain on Terok Nor because I believe you may be useful to me. If you aren’t, I see no reason to return you to the station. Do you?”

Did that mean that Dukat was planning to bring him back to the station after this?

“My natural charm?” Julian offered, only somewhat sarcastic.

“Not charming enough, I’m afraid. I’ll ask you one more time. How much do you know about Bajoran biology?”

Julian had been convinced, since they crossed the threshold to the docking ring, that he would not be returning to Terok Nor. Trusting Dukat was a dubious proposition, of course, but if there was a chance that Julian could make it back to the station without becoming an enemy of the Cardassian Union, that was preferable. One empire on his tracks was more than enough.

“Some,” he admitted. Bajorans were not a Federation species, but there were a few in Starfleet, and that meant they were included in medical courses. “I can do emergency triage and first aid, but I wouldn’t do surgery. Is that useful enough for you?”

_Please let it be enough._

“What about Cardassian?”

As if anyone outside of the union knew anything about Cardassian anatomy. Julian had rarely come across a species so private and secretive about basic bodily functions. He had picked up some knowledge at Quark’s, but it tended purely towards the erogenous.

Doubtful that Dukat wanted to hear innuendo again, Julian said, “I don’t know anything.”

Dukat smirked.

(If Julian had hated Dukat before, he _loathed_ Dukat with a smirk.)

“Really? Not even what you’ve personally experienced?”

In Julian’s experience, being a dabo boy was more about the promise of sex than sex itself, and he’d be damned before he talked to Dukat about it.

“Is that what you want to hear about?” he asked flatly.

Dukat had the gall to laugh, then leer, which made Julian’s skin prickle.

“Your friend Garak must be disappointed. Maybe I should give you a few lessons before returning you to him.”

Julian’s fists clenched reflexively.

“You could have done that on the station,” he observed coolly. Perhaps it would be necessary to return to his first plan after all.

Dukat did not respond immediately. He studied Julian for a silent moment, then reached out, and traced one long finger idly along the human’s jawline.

Julian froze, heart hammering in his chest.

On Alpha Cygnus IX, Julian had broken the nose of a man who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Since leaving the utopia that had never wanted to include him, he’d had plenty of practice taking care of himself.

Working in Quark’s had required the development of different strategies for unwanted attention. Sometimes a simple, _what’s the rush, darling? I’m here all night_ and a gentle redirection of hands was all Julian had available to him if an officer became too invasive in his touch. Directness was strongly discouraged by Quark, who cared more about keeping a customer than the dabo spinners’ comfort.

At its best, the role made Julian feel powerful and in control, Cardassian military eating out of the palm of his hand with no idea he was any more than what he appeared.

At its worst, Julian felt distant and disconnected in his own body, as if he were floating above and watching someone else’s actions.

Dukat’s touch on his cheek seemed to stretch into infinity as Julian slipped into the latter.

Theoretically, he could overpower a Cardassian. But if there was a chance that playing nice with Dukat would enable his return to Terok Nor, was that worth it?

Julian’s life on the station was not much of one, but it was still the first he’d really been able to build for himself since his expulsion from paradise.

Dukat’s hand withdrew. Julian realized with a sharp exhale that it had only lingered on his face for a few seconds.

“No, I have bigger plans for you,” Dukat said, and for a single surreal half-second Julian almost expected his next words to be _I plan for you to die, Mr. Bond_.

Instead, Dukat leaned to the side and opened some kind of compartment in the cockpit's side paneling, withdrawing a bronze colored device from it.

“You’ll need this,” Dukat said, and held it out.

A medical scanner, Julian realized instantly. Not the ubiquitous Federation tricorder, but a medical scanner nonetheless.

The last time Julian had held a medical scanner was back at the academy. In his third year of medical school, just starting clinicals, and he was talking to a Hailian woman about her blood pressure when one of his professors came in and said in hushed, hurried tones that someone was here who needed to see Julian in the other room _urgently_.

And then his life had promptly imploded.

Julian took the scanner gingerly.

“Who’s the patient?” he asked.

“All in good time,” was Dukat’s only response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had been playing fast and loose with the timeline, but I'm trying to pin it down. For anyone curious, we're after the Federation-Cardassian Armistice of 2367 but before the end of the Occupation in 2369, and Julian is probably like 26?  
> Dukat is referencing the secret military build-up that the Federation suspects Cardassia of in TNG episode "The Wounded."  
> Turkana is the home planet of Tasha Yar in TNG.


	3. I Hope You Gave Your Parents Hell for That

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian meets his new patient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter count went up again- I appear to have lost any skill for brevity.

The journey to their destination on Bajor was about an hour, during which time Dukat did not get sick of the sound of his own voice. Julian only heard about half of what was said, as his mind kept slipping down paths it had long left unexplored.

What had happened to his parents, he wondered. They had been arrested, and the trial was still being scheduled when Julian had escaped the planet. He had never tried to find out what sentence they received.

It would be a rehabilitative prison term. The Federation was not exceptionally imaginative in its judicial system. The real question was the length of time to be served.

It felt unfair, to some small part of Julian’s brain, that they should be imprisoned while he was free.

Another, far louder part cried out, _It’s their fault_ _you’re_ _in this mess! You didn’t ask to be ‘fixed,’ you never asked for this_.

They must have known, when they decided to improve him, that they were cursing him as well. They weren’t ignorant of the law, given all the work they put into breaking it. They knew that their child would always be illegal.

Jules wouldn’t have been a fugitive, a runaway dabo boy on a godforsaken Cardassian space station, being dragged into the unknown by a perpetrator of genocide.

Jules would have been safe. Who cared if he was smart, who gave a damn if he could spell the word _house_ , if he was safe?

Why did they choose a son who was bright and handsome over a son who would have had the right to live?

“We will be landing shortly.” Dukat’s voice jolted Julian out of his reverie.

“Landing,” he repeated, and looked down to see his hand clenched tight around the medical scanner. When he loosened his grip, there were imprints on the insides of his fingers, a hard red edge.

“It isn’t the Cardassian habit to leave unmanned vessels in orbit. Is that how humans do it?”

That was, in fact, a commonplace Starfleet protocol, but Julian thought better of saying so.

“This human has never piloted a shuttle in his life, so I wouldn’t know,” he lied.

Jules would have been something more than a lie. Julian never had been.

They landed in a cleared field, so perfectly sized it perhaps had been constructed for the purpose. The Cardassians certainly had no qualms about reshaping other aspects of the Bajoran landscape to suit their own desires.

“A kilometer north,” Dukat said, and began leading the way without any further preamble.

Julian could run. It was possible to hide from Cardassians on the planet; after all, that was how the Resistance survived. He could find the nearest cell and offer his services.

Of course he had no idea where he was or the distance to the nearest Bajoran settlement, or how to contact the Resistance once he got there.

This was also assuming Dukat didn’t have a disrupter hidden somewhere under all that armor, ready to shoot Julian with. Death might ultimately be preferable to captivity, but the ideal aim would be to avoid both.

Dukat resumed monologuing as they entered a fringe of trees. Something along the lines of, _thi_ _s is one of the last gola groves_ _left in the province. I believe there are_ _some_ _natural resources on Bajor worth preserving, although there isn’t much appreciation of the effort I’ve put in to…_

Julian had never been to Bajor before (he tended to stick to space stations rather than planets, where the constant flow of people meant less scrutiny), so he tried to absorb as much of the environment as he could, filling his lungs with real air. Unfortunately, the haze of memories brought on by the not-tricorder continued to intrude. He watched a small, brightly colored bird startle from a high branch and heard his mother’s voice saying, _Tree, Jules! See the tree?_

And underneath it all was the eternal pulse of counting- _one step two steps three four five fifty one hundred_ \- the heartbeat of Julian’s brain that he resolutely tried to suppress.

If Julian had not been good enough for his parents then, he could not imagine what they would think of him now.

James Bond, unsurprisingly, had no parents. Nor would he be idiotically thinking about them while traipsing after a villain in unknown territory. Julian shook his head to clear his thoughts, and switched the medical scanner to the other hand.

One kilometer north, it turned out, was the strangest building Julian had ever seen. It had the dark colors and austere spikes he’d come to associate with Cardassian architecture, combined with a wide circular entryway and domed caps above the windows that looked thoroughly out of place. Was that what Bajoran buildings looked like? It would be just like Dukat, wouldn’t it, to make a hideously ugly mess and consider himself a paragon of cultural exchange.

There were no other buildings around. It wasn’t a military compound, at least, but it was still unnerving to be so isolated. Living on a space station, Julian had grown accustomed to the presence of other people.

The door opened, and out stepped a Bajoran woman in a green sundress. She had peach-colored skin and glossy black hair.

That detail struck Julian the most. Glossy hair meant adequate nutrition and hygiene. That meant this woman was more likely to be a comfort woman, or a collaborator.

She approached them with a wariness that seemed mostly directed at Julian, although he thought that between the two of them Dukat was far more deserving of caution.

“Naprem,” Dukat said warmly, and took her hand, interlocking their fingers. “How is she?”

Comfort woman, most definitely, and that offered no clarity about why Dukat had brought Julian into it, other than to make him uncomfortable.

“She still has a fever,” the woman said, her forehead creased with worry, “and the cough is getting worse.”

This at least confirmed that Julian had been brought in to heal someone.

“Are you the doctor?” Naprem asked him.

“You can call me Julian,” he said, instead of answering. _Exiled medical student_ was more than he wanted to explain, but he thought that she deserved better than a lie.

She looked at him closely, and although she didn’t say anything, Julian got the distinct sense that he had said or done something wrong.

Naprem led them inside. The interior of the house was less strangely mismatched. It was light and airy, with colorful paintings and a small altar in one corner, presumably for prayer.

It was, quite frankly, bizarre, and Julian felt a little like Alice in Wonderland. Dukat looked perfectly at ease, which only added to the strangeness.

Up the single flight of stairs, Naprem knocked on a door, but opened it without waiting for confirmation from inside.

“Ziyal, someone is here to see you. His name is Doctor Julian,” she said gently.

It was a small but cozy and clean bedroom. All of Julian’s attention was immediately drawn by the figure in the bed.

Faint ridges on the forehead and neck, but unmistakable on the nose, and a warmer, lighter skin tone than the usual steely Cardassian gray.

A Cardassian-Bajoran hybrid.

 _Oh no_.

“I’ll be right back, Ziyal,” he said in his best firm-and-friendly-doctor voice, then shut the door with a solid click and rounded on Dukat.

“Naprem, why don’t you go and start some tea for our guest?” Dukat seemed to know that she would not appreciate whatever Julian was about to say.

Julian waited until the woman was down the stairs. Whatever he thought of Dukat, Naprem seemed concerned for Ziyal, and none of this was her fault.

“You need someone else.” He did not mince words.

The look Dukat gave Julian was made of stone.

“You will treat her,” he said, with all the severe force of a man used to giving unquestioned orders.

Julian glared back.

“Hybrids have unique medical issues. She needs a specialist, or at least someone with experience treating other Cardassian-Bajoran children.” Interspecies reproduction always came with complications.

“There _are_ no other Cardassian-Bajoran children.” Dukat’s lip curled. “Legally, they do not exist.”

Of course. Cardassian soldiers could fuck and rape and use Bajoran woman however they liked, and everyone would just pretend the resulting children did not exist.

“Then change the law,” Julian spat.

“I am one man, not Central Command.”

“What about her primary care physician? Who has she been seeing up until now?” _Please, let there be one_. If Julian learned that the girl had been receiving no medical care in her life, there was a chance he might very well punch Dukat.

“He is no longer with us,” Dukat said unpleasantly.

So he’d had the last doctor murdered. That set an ominous precedent.

“I don’t have the equipment I need.”

“You have a scanner.” Dukat gestured to the device loosely held at Julian’s side.

“That isn’t always enough for a diagnosis. I may need to run blood tests, neural scans, tissue cultures-”

“I will get you what you need,” Dukat interrupted. “In the meantime, you will examine her.”

His tone left no room for discussion.

Julian could hear a cough on the other side of the door. Dukat aside, lack of preparation aside, there was a child in there who needed help.

She deserved that he take a look, if nothing else.

With one last venomous glance at Dukat, Julian entered the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

The girl gazed up at him from the bed. Pre-adolescent, Julian guessed, but not by much.

“Hello, Ziyal.” He tried to soften his expression and tone, willing away the anger at Dukat. This was a child, a patient, and he had to set her at ease. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

She watched him with solemn eyes.

“You’re not Cardassian. Or Bajoran.”

“No, I’m a human. Have you ever met one before?”

She shook her head. He smiled.

“Well, I’m delighted to be your first.”

Ziyal opened her mouth to say something, but interrupted herself with a deep, hacking cough. Julian didn’t like the sound of it at all, but tried not to let the concern show on his face. _You were first in your class in pediatrics, once. Make that count for something._

“Are you going to scan me?” she asked shakily, when her breath had returned.

Julian had another surge of memory, of lying in a bed and staring up at alien doctors, Kukalaka clenched between his fingers-

He cut the thought off. Spiraling would help no one.

Still, he felt sharp sympathy for Ziyal all the same.

“I will have to,” he confirmed, “but it won’t hurt a bit. Is there… is there anything you’d like to hold while I do it? A doll, or…”

From the look she was giving him when he mentioned a doll, adolescence was not far off.

“Could I draw?” she suggested.

“Let me take a look at your hands, and we’ll see.”

Ziyal nodded acquiescence, and Julian checked the color, skin turgor, grip strength ( _squeeze my hand, there you are, good job_ ) before confirming that she was welcome to draw as much as she liked while he scanned.

He worked slowly, tip to toe, taking visual notes as he went (were her pupils dilated? did her skin appear flushed?) to compare against the scanner readings. He did not know what was normal for a Cardassian, but assumed that if reproduction without medical intervention was possible, then it couldn’t be all that different from Bajoran, despite the lack of common appearance. As he worked, Ziyal focused on lightly scratching something that looked like charcoal against the pages of a sketchbook from her bedside table.

“I’m going to be an artist,” she explained, when he had reached her midsection. “The first Cardassian-Bajoran artist to get famous on both worlds. That’s why I have to practice.”

Memories bubbled up again- _why won’t you let me keep going with tennis, I’m good at it, I could be a professional_ \- and then the explanation, the dirty secret that testing would reveal.

“I’m sure you’ll be an excellent artist,” he told her, knowing that one day the reality of an illegal existence would set in, envying her the innocence until it did. “What are you working on now?”

After mixing conversations about Ziyal’s sketches with questions about her lifestyle and health, Julian had to acknowledge that, sooner or later, he would need to once more face Dukat.

Dukat, who was the prefect of an entire planet and still thought the level of medical care his daughter merited was a kidnapped dabo boy. How was it possible for the man to keep getting worse?

Julian descended the stairs to find Dukat and Naprem in quiet conversation with cups of tea. They both looked up at him instantly, Naprem with wary hopefulness, Dukat with a smugness that made Julian want to grit his teeth.

“Ziyal asked for you,” he addressed Dukat. “She wants to show you her drawing.”

In fact, the tenderness with which Ziyal had requested ‘father’ was far more than Julian thought the man deserved.

Dukat nodded.

“I’ll be right back,” he promised Naprem, and then gave Julian a pointed look that conveyed the same words, albeit in quite a different tone.

Dukat’s departure left Naprem and Julian standing awkwardly, staring at each other.

“How is she?” Naprem folded her arms across her chest, almost shrinking in on herself.

“She’s very strong. Ziyal is a remarkable girl.”

Naprem nodded, and then suddenly she was blinking rapidly, and sniffing, and she turned away with a mumbled, “Here, I’ll get you some tea.”

Julian accepted the mug she offered with quiet thanks, and pretended not to notice her wiping her eyes with her sleeve.

“I appreciate you coming,” Naprem said, when her voice was a little steadier. “I do. You weren’t… Don’t take this the wrong way, but you aren’t exactly what I expected.”

Julian wasn’t sure whether she referred to his species or the fact that he was currently dressed in the most sparkly, revealing outfit Quark and Garak could concoct without it becoming public indecency.

(Add it to the list of reasons to hate Dukat, that he hadn’t given Julian the chance to change.)

“I’m usually not,” Julian admitted with a lopsided smile. “But I’ll do what I can to help Ziyal, I promise.”

He didn’t know exactly how, not yet. But he wouldn’t turn his back on someone in need.

“Do you have a computer terminal? I’ll need access to a medical database.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a bit I was like, would Julian put up more of a fuss to Dukat about treating Ziyal?  
> And then I remembered that this was a man who actively avoided escaping Jem'Hadar captivity because he thought he could cure them of their addiction. That is someone who would not turn his back on an ailing child.


	4. Trust Gets You Killed, Love Gets You Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dukat justifies himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has really stymied me! I felt very defeated about it, and eventually I sort of gave up and decided it would be better to post half of it and keep pushing on than let myself be stuck in redrafting the same section over and over.

Julian started with what he knew. From case studies reviewed in virology classes, he was aware that infectious diseases like Endik Fever and sefit were epidemics in refugee camps. But Ziyal was fairly isolated, and neither she nor Naprem could think of any instance where she would have interacted with a likely carrier. (There was another concern in there, about age-appropriate socialization, but Julian resolved to focus on one problem at a time.) Nor did they interact with tainted communal water sources, one of the primary carriers in camps.

Naprem swore that Ziyal had been inoculated for common Cardassian childhood illnesses, and that she had already had the most common Bajoran one, k’ssa, when she was six.

There was no fluid in Ziyal’s lungs, according to the scanner, but in a fully stocked infirmary he would have ordered a more thorough diagnostic with an imager. It would take more detailed testing to rule out a bacterial infection, as well.

“I wonder how many guls would allow you access to their computer systems.”

The voice was as unwelcome as its owner. Julian’s jaw clenched when he looked up from the monitor.

“I wonder how many guls have half-Bajoran children,” he retorted to the looming figure.

“None. Cardassian men of high stature do not have illegitimate children.” Dukat considered Julian, who let loose a small puff of air that was almost a laugh. “If they do, they kill them.”

“You can’t be serious.” This had to be just some ghoulish desire on Dukat’s part to discomfit Julian.

“And the mother as well.” Dukat said it with no pride, but no condemnation either. For him, it was simply a fact of life, the logical simplicity of cleaning up the messes one made.

Julian tried not to make generalizations about entire species, but sometimes it was hard not to hate Cardassians.

“That’s barbaric,” he said.

“Perhaps now you can appreciate my kindness.”

Refusing to murder a child and her mother was not kindness. It was, if anything, the bare minimum not to be even more of a horrible person than Dukat already was, and Julian refused to honor a bar that low.

“Is that why you don’t take Ziyal to a real doctor? So no one will know your dirty little secret?”

What had happened to the last one? Did Dukat routinely kill anyone who met his daughter?

“You seem determined to see the worst in my actions, Julian.”

“If I had a sick child, I would take her to the hospital, not a random dabo spinner.”

“If you had children, you would understand that you sometimes must make difficult decisions in order to keep them safe.” Dukat placed both hands on the desk next to Julian, and leaned in too close. “If any of my esteemed colleagues learned of Ziyal’s existence, what do you think would happen?”

Julian did not answer. With Dukat’s face so close, every muscle of his body went rigid with alarm.

Dukat continued, either not noticing or disregarding Julian’s discomfort. “I would be demoted. Lose my position, and my ability to maintain a house on Bajor. What would happen to Naprem and Ziyal then? Where would they live? What would they eat? The universe is not a kind place, whatever the Federation would have you believe.”

Julian knew that all too well.

“I’m not from the Federation.”

“To say nothing of my enemies,” Dukat went on. “They would both become targets, and not just to Cardassians. Those terrorists may argue that they are fighting for the greater good, but I’ve seen them bomb civilians and murder their countrymen without a second thought. They would kill Naprem and Ziyal for the crime of being connected to me. You may think I am a cruel, heartless man, but I love my daughter, and I am trying to protect her.”

In the distant reaches of Julian’s mind, that found an echo. _We love you, Jules, we’re trying to do what’s best for you_. As if love excused every action, precluded any followup questions.

“What are you going to do with me when I’m done treating Ziyal?”

Dukat straightened up with a pleased smile, and clasped his hands behind his back. Was he enjoying Julian’s confidence she could be cured, or simply the implication of Julian’s fear?

“Return you to the station, just as I said.”

“Aren’t you worried I’ll tell someone about this?”

Dukat’s smile grew teeth.

“You could certainly try.”

Dukat left Julian to continue sorting through medical archives, but the unsettled feeling remained.

Perhaps the worst part was that Julian truly believed Dukat did love Ziyal. He loved her, and it did not change his treatment of Bajorans, his participation in the Occupation, or his own smug superiority towards everything and everyone. That he could claim to love her, without changing his own behavior, showed how much humanoids could rationalize. There was nothing Julian could say that would penetrate Dukat’s protective bulwark of self-righteousness.

He took a deep breath and refocused on the computer terminal, shoving out the specter of his parents with words, words, words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does Dukat love Ziyal, or Naprem? My hot take is that the question is irrelevant. People can love someone and still hurt them.


	5. A Woman of Many Parts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tora Naprem talks to Julian

Julian scanned file after file, not knowing or caring if he should be hiding his reading speed. The house was full enough of lies and secrets without risking Ziyal’s health over what Dukat might or might not know about average human capabilities.

Some diseases were noted as being able to cross the species barrier, including k’ssa and a Cardassian infection called besedev. The former was contracted only once in a lifetime, and the latter was prevented by vaccinations. Ordinarily, that would rule both of them out, but hybrid genetics often had unexpected side effects. Ziyal’s immune system was completely unique- what if she had failed to build the appropriate antibodies?

“I brought you some tea,” a quiet voice said.

Julian looked up from the monitor, blinking rapidly to adjust his eyes. It was dark. When had it grown dark?

“Thank you.” He accepted the cup with both hands, taking a moment to inhale the warmth. It smelled like red leaf, Garak’s favorite. “How is Ziyal?”

“She fell asleep, but she’ll probably be up again in a few hours.”

“At least she’s getting some rest. Her body needs it.”

There were dark shadows under Naprem’s eyes. Julian wondered when she slept. He had thought about Ziyal’s lack of adequate socialization, but now it occurred to him that Naprem was perhaps just as isolated. Who did she interact with, aside from Dukat? How did other Bajorans respond to her?

What kind of a life was this?

“Forgive me if this is rude to ask, but you have treated Bajorans before, haven’t you?”

Julian couldn’t blame her for being cautious. It was unlikely she was much more familiar with humans than Ziyal, and he hardly cut a trustworthy figure at the moment.

“Yes, but not Cardassians,” he answered honestly.

“I see.” It seemed like there was more Naprem wanted to say, but she pressed her lips together and did not continue.

Julian wondered if he should justify his clothing, but ultimately decided it was better for her to think he had terrible taste than for him to admit this was his daily uniform.

“Where’s Dukat?” he asked, more out of a need to fill the silence than a sincere desire to know.

“Our room,” Naprem answered simply.

Would she sleep while he was here? Could she?

Julian tried to imagine spending not only days but years spent listening to Dukat talk.

“Look, I know you don’t know me, but I have to say…” It was presumptuous, dangerous, but he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t at least offer. “If you ever need someone, or somewhere to go, I know people. In-” _d_ _on’t say in the Resistance, don’t be stupid, Dukat is around_ “-in the Federation. If you ever want to get away. From him.”

Naprem looked at him coolly.

“These people you know. They would take us to a refugee camp, wouldn’t they?”

The Federation definitely would. As for the Resistance, Julian couldn’t say.

“I’m not sure,” he admitted.

“They would.” Her tone brooked no argument. “Have you ever been to one?”

“No.”

“No. Of course not.” She folded her arms across her chest. “If you had, perhaps you would feel differently. Here, Ziyal has two living parents. Do you know how rare that is on Bajor now? Her father visits her and brings her gifts and tells her he loves her. She has new clothes and books that are just for her. Why would I take her away from that?”

“Because he’s…” Julian trailed off, uncertain how to finish. He’s Dukat? He’s the Prefect? He’s responsible for the deaths of countless Bajorans? There was nothing Julian could say that Naprem didn’t already know, with an intimate familiarity.

“I know what it’s like to be hungry and alone. As long as I’m alive, I swear my daughter won’t.”

Her stare was cold and unblinking.

“I- I didn’t mean to offend.”

“No. Nobody ever does.” Her fingers flexed around her arms. “I know plenty of people who will tell you my choice is wrong, Doctor Julian. But I fail to see the nobility in suffering.” She gave him one last long, hard look. “Enjoy your tea.”

“I am sorry,” he blurted, before she could leave on that note. “It’s clear you care deeply for Ziyal. I only want to help.”

“Then you can cure her.” Naprem’s eyes did not soften, but she dropped her arms to her sides before departing.

Kira and Julian did not have a traditional friendship, and there was much he did not know about her, but Kira was a woman of strong opinions and by now he had picked up on many of them. Comfort women, for example, was a subject where Kira allowed no nuance.

 _Everybody has to choose a side. You’re either with us, or you’re against us_.

She did not have patience for anyone who tried to exist in the middle, including her fellow Bajorans. Collaborators were the enemy, and comfort women were collaborators.

Personally, Julian did not know whether or not this was true. He had little opportunity to interact with them. He had heard that many of them were kidnapped, which made him more inclined to pity them than anything else, but Kira insisted they had made a choice.

 _I would die before I let a Cardassian inside me_ , she had said, and he knew she meant it. Kira never said anything she did not mean.

Now, sitting in Naprem’s strange world that she had not invited him into, Julian turned Kira’s words over in his mind. Would she say that Naprem should have died rather than have a child with Dukat?

Was that what Julian would have done? He had a strong drive for survival, or he would have given up back on Earth and let himself be locked up and institutionalized. He would rather die than be turned into a weapon, but he’d rather neither if he could help it.

Would he have slept with Dukat, if it allowed him to stay safely on the station? Julian had offered, but only with the knowledge that the offer would be rejected. He had told Quark when first hired that he wouldn’t be doing sexual favors, and that was a condition of accepting the job. But if he truly had no other options, and nowhere else to go… He might have. He would have still tried to work with the Resistance, of course- but then again, that ‘of course’ was easy to add when he wasn’t really in that situation. And what did he know about Naprem’s situation at the end of the day? Almost nothing.

Kira could judge women liked Naprem however she liked. But Naprem and Ziyal deserved better options. They all did.

It was Dukat who had put them all in this situation, pitted Bajorans against each other. It was Dukat that Julian would continue to blame.

That made him think, again, of James Bond. The supervillain frequently died at the end of the film, their outlandish scheme thoroughly foiled. It was easiest to think of Dukat that way. That if he were gone, the Occupation would end.

But it wasn’t true. If Dukat died, another gul or legate would just come along and take his place.

The wash of hopelessness that accompanied that thought was almost dizzying, threatening to overwhelm him. But he had had some practice in batting back this feeling in treating patients. He couldn’t change Dukat, or the Occupation, or even this one girl. All he could do was try to address her sickness.

Julian didn’t sleep that night. It was a dangerous choice, tiptoeing closer to the line of revealing what he was, but he wouldn’t have been able to rest if he tried. Instead, he sat, and read, and did not think about late night sessions studying for exams at the Academy, or about his parents, or Kira or James Bond or problems he could not solve. He narrowed the scope of his world to one computer terminal, and every medical record or study he could get his hands on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was very inspired by the episode "Wrongs Darker Than Death or Night," and I would be remiss if I did not mention that I have been reading and thinking about AliceInKinkland's fic "To Suffer Woes Which Hope Thinks Infinite" and that has probably influenced this.


	6. People Who Can’t Take Advice Always Insist On Giving It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian's time on Bajor comes to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter was like hatching an egg. It was incubating for a week with no clear sign of progress, and then quite suddenly, last night, decided it was ready to be written.

Julian finally landed on his proposed diagnoses when the glow of the sun illuminated a pale pink sky.

Besedev, the Cardassian infection. The carrier would have been Dukat. Vaccination made the risk of spread less, but did not eliminate it entirely. For all Julian knew, more than one Cardassian on the station could have been a carrier, none of them showing symptoms because of the immunization program rigorously enforced for military personnel.

The vaccine was designed for Cardassian physiology. For whatever reason, it had not worked to protect Ziyal’s hybrid immune system. All that was needed was the test to confirm that she had contracted it, and a course of antivirals to help her body fight the infection.

Stupidly simple, almost. Hiding right in plain sight.

Julian expounded upon his theory to Naprem over a breakfast of bread rolls smothered in moba jam. (They came from the bakery in a nearby town; despite Dukat’s roundabout method of approach, the house was not as isolated as it had first seemed to Julian.) She nodded solemnly and listened with a thoughtful care, interrupting to ask questions when a point was not entirely clear.

Dukat came to join them, and Julian watched the way that Dukat put his hands over Naprem’s shoulders, the way she reached up to touch his fingers but did not look at him while they spoke.

They went back and forth on the logistics. The confirmed diagnosis would come after a blood test, which could be performed using equipment in the station’s infirmary. If they didn’t have the antivirals on hand or the replicator pattern to synthesize, the medication could be transported from elsewhere in the Union. If the results of the blood test came back negative, there were two other possibilities Julian recommended exploring, but he was fairly confident it was besedev.

Julian had anticipated some pushback from Dukat, a sense of technological or biological Cardassian superiority that would demand a Bajoran cause to the problem. But even he could not claim to know the exact details of how Ziyal’s immune system worked, and so he consented to testing more easily than Julian had expected.

The next piece, then, was to talk to Ziyal.

Julian found her in bed again, sketching. A mug of tea at her bedside still released curls of steam, a sign Naprem had been in not too long ago.

“How did you sleep?” he asked, and watched her nose crinkle.

“Badly,” she said tersely, her voice hoarse. “Coughing.”

Her skin looked clammy and pale. Not good signs, all things considered, but nothing that contradicted his tentative diagnosis.

“I hope the tea helps,” he remarked. “Hot drinks are often good for a sore throat.”

Evidently interpreting that as an instruction, or perhaps a challenge, Ziyal took a long drink from the mug while making eye contact with Julian. He grinned, which was apparently the correct response, because she smiled back after returning the cup to her nightstand.

“Are you going to scan me again?” she inquired.

“No, not this time. I’ll be leaving today to run some tests, but I hope to send back some medicine that your mother can give you.” That had been one of the arrangements worked out. Naprem was confident she could administer a basic pill or disposable hypospray. Julian also suspected that she was inclined to be rid of him as soon as possible, once he had done his job. He couldn’t blame her. She had wanted a doctor, not an alien houseguest.

“Oh.” Julian had been expecting some hopefulness or relief from Ziyal, but instead she frowned at her pad of paper. “It’s not finished…”

“Pardon?”

“Here.” In one sudden move, she tore a piece from the sketchbook and held it out to him. “It was going to be a gift to you.”

Julian gingerly took the paper and stared at the roughly blocked outline, a humanoid figure in his shirt and pants.

“That’s the healer’s badge.” Ziyal pointed to an unfamiliar shape on the drawing’s chest, and Julian’s throat tightened. “All the Cardassian doctors have them, so you should too. I didn’t start the face yet. I’ve never drawn a human before.”

“They’re not that different from us,” a voice offered from the doorway. “They’re more alike than we think.”

Julian turned to Naprem, and held up the drawing for her inspection.

“You have a very talented daughter,” he said, and his voice sounded odd in his ears, almost unsteady.

The corners of Naprem’s mouth tilted in a small but warm smile. It was, Julian reflected, the first genuine expression of pleasure he had seen from her.

“I do,” Naprem agreed. “I’m glad you can tell.”

“I’ll make sure she gets what she needs,” he promised, the best that he could do, and Naprem nodded.

Julian turned his head back to the bed.

“Thank you, Ziyal,” he said, and hoped that every emotion he couldn’t put words to came through.

On his way down the stairs, he clutched the drawing tight.

Dukat once more monologued about gola trees and his general under-appreciation on the trek back to the shuttle, which Julian tuned out in order to think. He contemplated Naprem, resolutely trying to protect her daughter from the universe, and sweet Ziyal trying to capture it all on paper. The unreal bubble of life in that house, so separate from the ravaged world outside their door. What would happen to them, if Dukat’s house of cards caved in?

If Ziyal got sick again, would Dukat bring Julian back? How dire would the prefect allow the situation to become before he brought in a doctor?

She needed more medical care than a course of antivirals, particularly with an unprecedented adolescence approaching.

In the shuttle, Julian sat without being commanded, and made his move.

“I won’t tell anyone,” he began.

“I should hope not,” Dukat parried, without so much as glancing up from the controls. “It would be a very hazardous choice for your health.”

“If you don’t want to be discovered, kidnapping me in the middle of Quark’s isn’t the way to go about it. If I come back, it’ll need to be more… discreet.” Julian was already nervous about convincing Kira he hadn’t been compromised without revealing the truth.

“You sound quite certain that you will be coming back.”

The tone of that was vaguely threatening, but Julian persevered.

“I’d like to. It’s recommended that most species have a check-up at least annually, and with Ziyal’s situation I think every six months would be better. I don’t want her to get sick again.”

“Very generous of you.”

“ _But_ -” here was the tricky part- “I want to be paid.”

Dukat laughed. It was grating, but preferable to an outright refusal.

“You’ve been spending too much time with Ferengi.”

“I don’t want latinum. I want you to give protective equipment to the Bajoran workers at risk of radiation poisoning.”

The laughter stopped. Dukat cocked his head to the side and appraised Julian.

“That’s a large favor to ask.”

It was perhaps the smallest ask on Julian's considerable list of things the Bajorans needed, but he refrained from saying so.

“It would improve efficiency, if the workers weren’t always getting sick. They’d be able to be more productive, and you wouldn’t have to train as many new ones.” Efficiency, he was pretty sure, was an effective argument for Cardassians. They were not concerned about profit, but they were devoted to order.

“I will consider it.”

Was that a no? Julian decided to press his luck; if he was going to convince Dukat, there would not be another opportunity.

“You must already have it for the Cardassian crews. How difficult would it be to get more?”

“I already told you, I will consider it.”

“All I’m saying is-”

“You have said enough.” Dukat’s tone spelled danger. “I am a generous man, but even my patience has its limits. There are some who would say I’ve already extended you too much leniency. There are some guls so insecure they’d have a man shot for interrupting them. I am not such a weak man, but I will warn you not to push me further. Am I making myself clear?”

James Bond, Julian thought sourly, would have had a smart reply to that. Then again, James Bond had a gun.

“Perfectly,” he said, and his fingers crept to Ziyal’s drawing.

The clothes and species hadn’t mattered to her. She had drawn him as a healer.

Julian was not the person his parents had tried to make him into, not a shining star, not a valedictorian. Nor was he what he had tried to make himself, an athlete or a Starfleet officer. At the moment, all he had to his name was the capacity to care. But he would make every use of it that he could.


	7. This Is My Second Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a repetitive epic, the characters end where they began. The interest lies in seeing how they got there.

It was besedev.

Julian had been nervous about running the test. Could a dabo boy really waltz into the infirmary with an anonymous blood sample and demand testing?

No, a dabo spinner couldn’t, but Dukat certainly could. Military doctors were evidently not in the habit of asking him too many questions. (Julian couldn’t blame them, based on what he knew of what had happened to the last doctor who dared to not show Dukat the proper respect.)

The antivirals were similarly easy for him to obtain, and most easy of all was Julian’s promise to see Ziyal again in 10 days. That one, Dukat didn’t even have to threaten him for. Julian had made up his mind to care for her, and he was not in the habit of being easily dissuaded from things he meant to do.

The situation thus temporarily resolved, Julian was forced to confront the other pressing issue in his life: namely, that everyone thought he was dead.

Perhaps that shouldn’t have been surprising. Julian had been marched off the station by Dukat himself, not a situation from which one generally returned unscathed. Despite the number of witnesses, the story had grown unchecked, gaining new embellishments in each telling. Quark informed Julian that the current version had Julian fighting off three Cardassian security officers using an ancient Miradorn technique to disarm opponents. (How many of these additions came from Quark himself, it was impossible to determine.)

Quark also informed Julian that, since he was alive, he would be expected to show up for his usual shift that evening. There was something to be said for Ferengi predictability.

Others, like Kira, would take longer to adjust to the idea of his return.

Julian had considered a number of different cover stories during the shuttle ride, ranging from being brought in for a human prisoner of war taken from a Federation ship, to serving as a comfort man on the surface for an eccentric gul. (The latter story left a bad taste in his mouth, thinking of Naprem’s situation, and he discarded it almost instantly.)

In the end, Julian opted to go for a lie that was almost substantiated by evidence. Dukat had been discussing Garak when he approached Julian in the bar, and so it was Dukat’s inexplicable feud with Garak that Julian would pin his lie on.

“All they did was ask questions. How often his shop was open and who I saw going in there and even what kind of literature he had me reading. Why would they care about that?” Julian asked Kira in a low voice. The more gaps he could get her to fill herself, the more believable she would find the tale to be.

“Sedition. Coded messages. Paranoia. It could be anything.” She glanced from side to side warily. “That’s it? They didn’t touch you?”

Having her acquaintances taken by Cardassians for questioning was an unfortunate fact of Kira’s life. Having them return completely unharmed was not.

“No. I just answered them and I guess eventually they figured out I don’t have anything useful to say. Or they got everything they need…” Julian trailed off, seeing Kira’s scowl. She was angry, but not suspicious. It took him a moment to understand the root of her expression; if he had been Bajoran, they would have beaten him before, during, and after the interrogation, no matter how cooperative he tried to be. “I’m sorry,” he said tentatively.

Kira shook her head grimly.

“You have nothing to apologize for. It’s not your fault, it’s theirs.” She found it all too easy to believe that Cardassians would treat a human differently, particularly one whose uninjured body was used for Cardassian benefit. “And you don’t know where they took you?”

“No, we transported off the shuttle into a facility, then back. I barely saw anything.”

Kira clucked her tongue against her front teeth.

“Figures. And the interrogator?”

“I didn’t recognize him.”

Kira was silent for a moment, thinking. This was the moment Julian had been dreading.

Dukat was wrong about the Resistance in many ways, but he was correct about one point- they would target Cardassian civilians if they considered it necessary. Given Kira’s attitude towards comfort woman, Julian worried she would consider Naprem an acceptable casualty.

Being able to treat the Bajorans on the station mattered to Julian. It was one of the only ways available to him of taking a small stand against the enormous injustice of the Occupation. But Naprem and Ziyal were innocent, and he was not willing to sacrifice them for Kira’s trust. No good deed goes unpunished, as the saying went.

“They’re going to be watching you closely,” Kira warned. “It’s best if you stay away for a while. If you need to send a message, wait until someone you trust gets put on Quark’s cleanup crew, and send it through them.”

Julian nodded vigorously. She was clearly still cautious, given that she had given neither specific names nor a timeline for his return to service, but she had not rejected him outright, and that was a relief. He would take the time to try and convince her he could still be trusted, as long it was possible for her to still be convinced.

To Garak himself, Julian gave no explanation. Garak did not ask, merely hinted, and Julian felt no obligation to respond to hints.

They fell back into routine, sharing lunch so that they could insult each other’s lack of taste. It felt odd to Julian, to be back to normal after 26 hours completely off-kilter. That was another thing they never included in James Bond, the strange anticlimactic feeling of going back to life after an adventure ended.

Speaking of James Bond, Julian still had a duty to complete, even if he was not yet sure whether Kira would want to receive the information from him.

“I heard Legate Kell is going to be back on the station,” he mentioned, although the conversation he overheard in Quark’s now felt like a lifetime ago. “Why do you think he’s coming back so soon?”

Garak smiled knowingly. Whether he knew anything or not, Julian couldn’t say for certain, but he definitely enjoyed behaving as if he did.

“There’s a Cardassian proverb you might be interested in, my dear. Wind and rain will weather stone, but Cardassia endures. Do you understand my meaning?”

“No,” Julian answered with a teasing smile of his own, “but I’m sure you won’t explain.”

“Then, of course, there’s the old saying, even the sun must set.”

Well, what did either of those have to do with the legate?

They both had to do with natural phenomena, although with Cardassians it was rarely about the surface meaning. The latter was about the inevitability of change, while the former was about the Cardassian Union being fundamentally unchanging.

Was there a change coming? To the station, or to the Occupation itself?

If something happened to Dukat, what would happen to Naprem and Ziyal? For all his claims of trying to protect them, it was unclear how Naprem could support herself and her daughter without Dukat’s patronage.

Even if Dukat continued reigning uninterrupted, what would happen to Ziyal when she became an adult? What sort of world was she going to come into?

Why did parents do this to their children?

Julian stabbed his spoon into his sem’hal stew.

“Do you think there are parents anywhere not massively fucking up their children?” he said suddenly.

Garak blinked.

“I wouldn’t presume to know.”

Julian’s heart felt heavy, full of things he couldn’t express.

“I mean, it seems they always think they’re doing what’s best, and ultimately their children suffer for it.”

“Hm.” Garak made a noncommittal thinking noise. For all Julian knew, it was an offensive belief to express around Cardassians.

He was used to keeping his parents’ secret, the burden they had give him when he was six years old. But at times he itched with a desperate wanting to be _seen_ , to be _known_ , to have someone in the broad, uncaring universe know who Julian Bashir really was.

Such a wish was impossible, particularly while living in exile. Still, the desire lingered.

Julian pushed chunks around his bowl, trying unsuccessfully to create mounds.

“My parents... didn't get the child they wanted,” he said, recklessly.

Garak nodded.

“I suppose mine didn’t either,” he said neutrally.

Julian suspected it was not at all the same, but who could say with Garak?

It was more than they usually shared with each other, and it was too dangerous to share more.

Julian took a mouthful of stew.

“What should we read next?” he mumbled around the food.

Garak looked disapproving of Julian’s table manners, but refrained from commenting.

“I’ve been thinking that our cultural exchange has been rather one-sided thus far. Do you have any human literature you recommend?”

What did they read on Turkana IV? Julian hadn’t the faintest idea. Living in constant violence and scarcity did not promote the production of written media for outsiders.

How much did Garak really know about the Federation? Was it worth it to recommend something from Earth, something Julian actually liked?

Maybe this was Garak’s way of giving him an opening to share, in the only avenue available to them.

Julian laid down his spoon and considered.

“Have you ever heard of James Bond?”

The rumor spread one week later that the Cardassians had received a surplus of personal protective equipment for radiation exposure, and Bajoran work crews would be allowed to use them. Julian grinned but said nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still finding the space between wrapping everything up too neatly, and leaving threads dangling. It's obvious which side I've drifted to here.


End file.
